"The idiot," Snape informed Harry cheerfully as he entered the Common Room the next morning.
Harry looked up, feigning boredom. "What happened?"
Snape eyed him a moment, calculating. All the teachers knew to some extent, whether conscious of it or not, that the protections around the Stone were more for testing Dunce than actual protection.
Please. As if there was anything there that would stop the Dark Lord… except the Mirror Snape hadn't dared look into. The Mirror, Snape suspected, was the only thing truly protecting the Stone, and the only thing necessary. But, they were asking proof of worthiness from the wrong Potter, and, while he was malignant, Snape didn't want to be indirectly responsible for a child's death. That could make life difficult. So. Hints.
"He and Weasley ran into one of Hagrid's more exotic pets," he purred. "You could hear the screaming from the dungeons."
A tiny smile flickered over the boy's face. "The Cerberus," Harry acknowledged.
Snape eyed him askance and decided it would probably be best if he didn't ask. "Yes. Called 'Fluffy', if you can believe it. Now, remember what we discussed yesterday in our conversation about Defence Against the Dark Arts. What is the typical function of a Cerberus?"
"Guard dog," he responded promptly. His eyes narrowed. "What is it guarding?"
Hagrid was going to let slip about Flamel, Dumbledore was counting on it. His student deserved no less, and would probably get the answer long before Dunce. "Something for Nicholas Flamel," he said edgily, concealing a smile.
He watched snatches of information being gathered, discarded, replaced, snapped into place. "The Philosopher's Stone."
Snape revised his original thought. He was not just pleased with Harry Potter's acumen. He might just indulge in the Gryffindor vice of pride.
"Very good," he said approvingly, nodding, leaving the room before he indulged and gave all the answers. Just because Potter's survival was necessary to Snape's freedom (and the continued existence of the wizarding world, mustn't forget that) didn't mean Snape was going to give him all the answers. What good would it do to cosset him when in the end he'd have to face the Dark Lord on his own merits anyway?
At the end of the day, despite fifth year Hufflepuffs somehow managing to create semi-aware vomit-monsters, the inconvenience of having to remove a Gryffindor sixth year from the ceiling, and the general all-round irritation and paranoia that accompanied having to oversee detentions involving Fred and George Weasley, he concluded he was actually doing something meaningful with his time. Most important of all, the likelihood of him being killed while doing so was negligible, and as such put mentoring Harry Potter far above work done during his time as a spy for the Order of the Phoenix.
James Potter would roll in his grave. Just as soon as Snape put him in it.
Time passed. Snape kept waiting patiently for whoever was after the Stone to take a chance, and was continually disappointed. He was beginning to suspect the reason why Albus had put him on permanent Stone-watch.
He contemplated informing him that even snakes had limited patience, but decided on reflection that he really was the only one for the job, having enough sense to remain suspicious despite the Dark Lord's apparent defeat. And in any case, he'd already visited Albus once this year; he couldn't take another pointless argument with the sugar-doped wizard just yet.
Speaking of sugar…
"Weasley! Sugar mice are not for dropping down Miss Bell's back! Five points from Gryffindor."
He could feel the glares being aimed at his back. Hmph. Was it his fault if the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team were unfortunate enough to be in the place of Potter-Who-Lived-To-Annoy-Him?
Of course not. "It'll be ten points if you even think of lighting that firework, Weasley," he added without turning around, striding back to the front where he could best glower impressively and see all dangers. He had yet to be successful in his petitions to separate the Weasley twins from his Potions classes, and until such a time as Twin Mk. I spent his lessons in the Forest and the other in the dungeons (anything less being foolishly lenient), his paranoia insisted upon the best vantage point.
A Nimbus Two Thousand. Received at the breakfast table in the Great Hall, for Merlin's sake. Might as well have put up posters declaring the new Gryffindor Seeker.
There were many days when Snape would dearly love to use the Cruciatus Curse on James Potter and/or his brainless offspring. Far more rare were the days when he merely wished to teach them the value of antidotes.
Using the Cruciatus Curse on James Potter will solve nothing, the more sensible portion of his mind pointed out calmly. Since it had ceased to be a matter of life and death to listen to it however, Snape no longer paid any attention. He took the time to flick through his old Potions textbooks in the hope that sometime since he'd last seen it a recipe for an utterly untraceable and exquisitely virulent poison had somehow turned up. Why, oh why had he stopped researching it since the Dark Lord's fall?
… he might even enlist Harry in this project. He had sneaking suspicion the boy would be very pleased to research a nasty demise for his brother. Or perhaps Snape was applying his own sentiments to Harry's view of his brother. Perhaps Harry Potter was a better person, who didn't wish his moronic, attention stealing and undeserving twin any harm at all.
Psht. And Snape would win Teacher of the Year.
By the time Halloween arrived, Snape had driven a class of third year Ravenclaws to nervous breakdown by overloading them with fifth year material, had Longbottom in detention so often he was beginning to lose the will to live, lost a bet against Minerva over who could cause Quirrel to faint first (he still maintained that her usage of her animagus form to jump on his head from a closet was childishly simple and definitely cheating) and booked so many Quidditch practise sessions that there had been an official complaint. There had still been no attempt on the Stone. His paranoia insisted that this meant nothing good, despite common perception that 'no threat' actually means 'no threat'.
So he was grimly pleased when Quirrel ran into the Great Hall as if he'd seen the hags doing the can-can, screaming about trolls before fainting. Hm. A quick glance to either side revealed that he was clearly the only faculty member who remembered that one of Quirrel's qualifications was his ability to converse in fluent Troll. Consequently, while the rest of the staff herded the children to safety, he remembered what prefects were for and delegated responsibility to chase after Quirrel.
Which led to his current state of affairs: standing the wrong side of the third floor corridor door, with Quirrel having successfully given him the slip (he was not going to mention that in his report to Albus, that was for sure. Successfully eluded by turbaned, stuttering idiot). And just what was Albus not-thinking, with the third floor corridor accessible with a mere alohomora? Any bloody first year could get in and be torn to pieces.
Not that he minded such an occurrence, of course, but the paperwork would be immense.
There was a low growl from behind him. Snape gave in to cliché and turned around very slowly.
He froze. Fluffy's second head eyeballed him (the third head was sleeping and the first was preoccupied looking for giant fleas).
Three-headed dog. Irritable three-headed dog.
Well, there could only be one response to that.
Snape imitated a bat out of hell even more successfully than his students gave him credit for and for the first time in his life cursed his penchant for billowing robes. Fluffy decided it hadn't had nearly enough fun for years, or at least, for the time it had spent guarding the trapdoor, and gave chase, barking frantically. No doubt Hagrid would claim he just wanted to play fetch or some such game, but Snape was the one doing the running and he strenuously objected to being mistaken for a moving chew toy.
By the time he stumbled back out into the corridor, he was liberally spattered with Cerberus drool and his left leg could give a piece of mince a run for first prize at a county fair. He was going to hex Hagrid so hard his beard fell out. He was going to feed him piece by piece to his beloved homicidal dog. And Quirrel. He was going to strangle Quirrel with his bloody turban. He was going to use him for potions ingredients. He was going introduce him to the Giant Squid – the poor thing had been celibate since the Dark Ages.
In Hogwarts, everything up to and including maiming and attempted murder was possible and permitted, provided it appeared to be an accident. Magic was a dangerous business, after all. Snape had absolutely no qualms about planning the death of a fellow teacher. If nothing else, it passed the time.
He was going to bloody well kill them all.
He grimaced. Just as soon as he cleaned off the drool and made sure he wasn't going to bleed to death in the corridor. It might be the preferable option if the Dark Lord ever returned, but Snape was determined to leave suicide to the last possible minute even so.
"Must remind Dumbledore to lock the door properly," Snape muttered, staring at his mangled leg. "Somebody could really get hurt. And if I wanted to be in constant pain I'd still be a Death Eater. I don't get paid enough for this."
He staggered upright and limped in the direction of the faint screams somewhere below (above? Which way was 'up' again?) him, knowing instinctively that he'd find at least one of the Potter brats at the bottom of them.
"Peeves!" he barked, uncommonly pleased to see the poltergeist juggling water balloons. "Where's the trouble, Peeves, and why aren't you involved?"
Peeves dropped the balloons in surprise, and blinked at the ragged sight before him. "Why, your professorness, what have you been doing?"
As was usual when talking to Peeves, Snape didn't know whether to share malicious grins or arrange for an exorcism. "Shut it Peeves," he said hoarsely. "Trouble. Where?"
Evidently, their tentative partnership was still working, as Peeves told the truth. "Girls' toilets," he said brightly, smirking. "Wouldn't want to be seen in there, Snape. Could cause all sorts of rumours."
Snape did not doubt Peeves would be the source of all of them. He paid the poltergeist well, but if there was better entertainment value to be found in going against him, Peeves would take it.
"Troll?"
"Very articulate." Peeves grinned. Snape refrained with effort from telling him what he thought of his linguistic skills. "Don't know anything about a troll. But there's lots of screaming going on in there," he said with relish.
Snape cursed at length and with great imagination, limping as fast as he was able to the (doubtlessly unappreciated) rescue. That he found Quirrel hiding behind a suit of armour was a definite bonus, but the appearance of a worried and infuriated Minerva was much more comforting – even Snape had his doubts about confronting a full grown mountain troll on his own, and he had no doubt that just because Quirrel had so far proven cowardly and useless, didn't mean he wasn't capable of hitting him with an Avada Kedavra while he was busy. Minerva gave his bloody leg a sharp glance, but the crashing noises and screams, followed by sudden, ominous silence was evidently more worrying.
The door was blasted in, and Snape entered a place he hoped he would never see again, to be confronted by a sight he knew he would never see again – a twelve foot mountain troll, knocked out; Hermione Granger, flattened against a wall; Ron Weasley, staring gormlessly (scratch that, he would see that again); Dunce Who Lived, trying to clean his wand of troll bogies, and studiously avoiding Harry Potter, arms crossed, looking absolutely furious. Snape edged over to the troll, and decided from the cracked mess that was once its underdeveloped skull that he could safely rule out 'unconscious'. He gave Harry Potter a swift glance, and noted his terse nod in response.
At last. Proof of his deeply-held belief that children were all vicious, murderous little bastards twice as bad as any Dark Lord.
"What on earth were you thinking of?" McGonagall hissed. Snape had rarely seen her so angry, and was only relieved that it wasn't aimed at him. "Why aren't you in your dormitories?"
There was an intensely uncomfortable period of silence while Dunce and Dumber exchanged helplessly glances and Harry eased himself seamlessly into the background and slipped out of the door. Snape was so impressed, he almost decided he wasn't going to yell at him for an hour when he saw him the Common Room. Almost.
He didn't pay much attention to the excuses, being preoccupied with practising his best glowers on Quirrel, who cringed beautifully in response. He was even more entertaining than first years, he decided, and was so engrossed with the task he almost missed Minerva handing out five points to Dunce and Dumber for… well, stupidity.
It was going to go down in Hogwarts legend, he thought resignedly, heading to the dungeons to scream at Harry Potter for an hour, or possibly six, that two first years had taken on a troll, in a girls' bathroom, and only received five points each.
"Potter," he hissed, sending every Slytherin scrambling for the dormitories, leaving the target of his ire to face him alone in an outstanding example of the Slytherin sense of self-preservation.
Even Harry was quite surprised to find himself still alive the next morning. As Draco Malfoy pointed out, faintly awed, nobody had ever been seen outside of potions again after meeting Snape in that mood.
Snape however, had weighed the consequences, and fully expected to be reimbursed for his rare mercy at a later date. Azkaban was not on his Top Ten list of holiday destinations, and having the future saviour of the wizarding world on his side could only be good.
Now, to making sure Dunce never saw the first Quidditch match of the season...